


Francophile - beauty and mistakes

by archestofenemies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cake, Chocolate, F/M, Flowers, Historical Hetalia, Huddling For Warmth, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Massage, Rivalry, Sauna, Skiing, Tsunderes, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21580198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archestofenemies/pseuds/archestofenemies
Summary: France x World1. Sweden/France - sauna2. England/France - fantasy/RPG AU3. Belgium/France - courting4. France/Liechtenstein - cake5. England/France - massage6. France/Marianne - singing a song7. France/Jeanne d'Arc - that girl
Relationships: Belgium/France (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), France (Hetalia)/Jeanne d'Arc | Joan of Arc, France/Female France (Hetalia), France/Liechtenstein (Hetalia), France/Sweden (Hetalia)
Kudos: 20





	1. Snow Daze (France and Sweden - Sauna)

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware the majority were written for the LJ kink meme to fill specific prompts that had to do with France from 2009, which was 10 freaking years ago. By their nature and age, they are unbetaed and probably OOC or historically inaccurate or both, I was on a one-man mission to make sure every France prompt was filled lol. Anyway, I am no longer in the fandom, I just want to make sure these were archived at ao3 as well as ff.net, but I hope you enjoyed these fossils I dug up.

Sweden pretended he had not heard and kept right on walking, but the voice was too clear, too deliberate, and someone was bound to notice. He stopped and waited for the tourist to catch up, trying to look like a normal ski resort employee.

"Imagine seeing you here, _Berwald_ ," France purred, stepping to his side, too close for comfort. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"What d'you want?"

"Why, the same thing everyone here wants. A fun time skiing at a lovely locale…" France smiled and glanced over at the pristine white landscape, sparkling under a flawless blue sky, the small crowds of excited skiers at the lifts, waiting to be taken up to the slopes. "With a talented and handsome instructor, perhaps," he finished, giving Sweden a meaningful look.

"Y'need ski lessons?" Sweden asked doubtfully. He knew France could ski just fine, he was actually one of the better skiers in Europe, if a little flashy.

"Actually, I would like to hire you as my tour guide for the day. I have never been to Åre before, and would love to experience it fully."

Sweden stared at him impassively and then started walking away, leaving France behind.

"Wait, wait!" France called out, jogging after him. "Think about it, a good review from me could be just what you need!"

"Don't need y'r money."

Now it was France's turn to stare, and while Sweden could stare back until the sun went down, he could not deny the truth. Every little bit helped in these uncertain times. Even if he could do without the hostility of the typical French tourist, the rest of the continent generally respected France's tastes, and that was never a bad thing.

"Get y'r gear and meet me at the lifts."

"Ah, I knew you'd understand, darling!"

* * *

It seemed France knew what he was doing, and Sweden had nothing to say about the good condition of his skis and poles, the comfort of his outerwear, a little pink to be absolutely masculine, but warm and waterproof enough. He let France settle into the chair lift first, then sat down beside him and lowered the restraining bar, which unfortunately was not restraining enough to keep a nation's wandering hands to himself. Sweden let it slide though, since the ride was fairly windy, and if that was what France needed to do to keep his circulation going, then he had no objections.

As the lift gradually made its way to the top of the slope, France attempted to start a conversation with Sweden, apparently to better showcase his own wit and charm because he was certainly not expecting any repartee from his taciturn companion. His brilliant anecdotes of time spent snowboarding some of the most dangerous runs in the Alps were lost upon Sweden, however. When France returned to the topic of skiing and how he could use some tips from a fellow skier to perfect his skill, Sweden finally suggested that he was probably out of practice keeping his legs closed.

They spent the rest of the ride up in icy silence.

It was a little awkward disentangling themselves when the chair lift stopped, France seemed to have completely melded himself into Sweden's jacket, and they received not a few strange looks from other skiers. But eventually, without further mishap, they arrived at the piste France had his eye on, near the top of the peak.

" _Incroyable_ ," France whispered, breath curling out from between his rosy lips in a plume. He stared with wide eyes around the scenery, taking in the crisp clean air avidly. "I have never seen anything so… spectacular, so breathtaking…" He looked over at Sweden, who said nothing and snapped his goggles into place.

"Let's go."

They took a challenging first run, and there being no other skiers around, they went as fast as they dared. France seemed to have no problems with the pace, so Sweden led him to the black diamond run further down the slope. There was a close brush with a tree branch once or twice, but France, breathless and ruddy when he slid to a stop in front of Sweden, eagerly asked him for more.

Raising an eyebrow, Sweden pulls out the map, scanning it for a suitable challenge. France tried to tiptoe as best as he could on skis to take a look and nearly lost his balance when Sweden turned to face him.

"Cross-country?" he suggested.

France considered that and then nodded. "A ski tour sounds perfect. Just the two of us, alone with nature…"

Sweden was not so sure about the perfect part, but he did request a tour, and a twenty-six kilometer circuit around the main peak would give France the tour he wanted. After a stop by one of the many resort shops to collect some cross-country necessities, the two were on their way.

* * *

"Sweden? Could you… please wait? I-I don't think… my legs are as long as yours."

"How're y'doing?" Sweden asked gruffly, glancing over his shoulder at France who was some distance behind him. France tried to smile, but it was more a pained grimace than anything else. They were on the most difficult part of the trail now, the highland heaths under the shadow of Mount Åreskutan. No doubt France was tired from the first two runs, and he was feeling the burn in his legs, even after they had rested in a shelter some five kilometers back.

The weather was taking a turn for the worse, the skies covering with charcoal-gray clouds, the wind blowing harshly, potentially lowering the visibility even further. Sweden did not want to hurry his guest, but they needed to get to the next lift soon, or risk getting caught in bad weather. He skied back to France's side, hoping to encourage him to move.

"Sorry," France mumbled miserably, taking off his goggles to wipe at his reddened eyes with a gloved hand. "I thought I could make it."

"You okay?"

France nodded, their kind could usually push on far longer than a human can, but Sweden thought that this was not the best way for anyone, even France, to spend a vacation – cold, exhausted, in pain.

"We'll stop."

He guided France to the treeline, into a copse of birches, where they could relax tucked away from the wind and snow and hopefully regain some energy before restarting the tour. After performing extraordinary measures to detach themselves from their skis, Sweden stamped flat a patch of snow next to a tall birch tree. All he had in his pack was an emergency tent for one, but with one side left open, it could provide shelter for two, and so he quickly set up the tarp, piling some branches against the outside for extra protection.

"C'mon," he said, motioning France inside the tent.

With a small groan, France managed to settle into the shelter, gingerly stretching out his legs across the packed snow. Sweden made one last check of the area, assessing the sky and deciding it will hold for the rest of the day. He made himself comfortable beside France, who immediately curled into his side, shivering.

Awkwardly, Sweden put an arm about France's shoulders, holding him close so that they could share body heat, but after a few minutes, he could tell it wasn't working. France was on the verge of tears, and he mumbled unhappily to himself in his own language between the sniffling and chattering teeth. It was not in Sweden to feel pity for France, who had once been an ally, but who had caused problems as well, and yet he could not bring himself to ignore the other's discomfort.

"Don't cry," he said at last, bringing up a hand to wipe at France's cheeks. "Y'lose heat that way."

France cracked a weak smile despite his chapped lips. "Of course, you're right."

He watched curiously as Sweden pull out a heat pack from his bag, warming it between his bare palms before setting it on France's lap.

"For y'r legs," he added, but since France did not seem to understand, he moved it on top of France's left thigh, holding the heat pack down while using his other hand to squeeze at the tense muscle.

That caused France to shudder and gasp, a high-pitched wheeze that sounded unnaturally loud to Sweden in the muffled silence.

"Ah! Th-that felt… very nice. Thank you, Sweden."

Avoiding France's gaze, Sweden continued working down his leg, trying to ease the beginnings of a cramp in his calf with his fingers. He debated checking his feet, but decided it was not worth the potential frostbite to take off his boots, and so he clambered over and turned his attention to France's right leg. Which was just as tense, evidence that France was not exaggerating his pain.

The overwhelming quiet apparently got to France's sensibilities, and he broke the silence saying, "You're very good at this. Even better than me."

"S'nothing," Sweden murmured. He looked up to see if France was showing any improvement and could not help but notice how brightly flushed his cheeks seemed, his lower lip reddened from chewing on it so hard, his eyes wide and dark and gleaming with barely repressed emotion.

"No, it _is_ something. I think you know, don't you?" France breathed, his voice low and husky, and feeling a thrill on the back of his neck, Sweden backed away, sitting on the snow with a thump.

"Y'need to relax, France..." But the words did not come out as sternly as he had intended. Sweden found himself unable to move as he stared at France, captivated by the deep, liquid blue of his eyes. Some logical part deep inside his brain told him that they weren't going to get to the resort with France in this state, they had at least ten more kilometers to go, and it would be better to get it over sooner rather than later, before the sun set and he would have to carry back an obviously aroused Frenchman, on skis.

The rest of his brain was noticing, a bit uselessly, how warm the tent had gotten and that France was saying something but he could not hear through the cotton which had somehow stuffed itself into his ears.

France rose to his knees, crawling over to Sweden and placing his now warmed hands on his thighs. What had been a utilitarian motion became something utterly erotic now that France was performing it. Even through the layers of long underwear and wool trousers and waterproof nylon, he could France's caresses like a burning brand on his skin. He shifted uncomfortably, knees knocking together, and France withdrew his hands, only to pour himself into Sweden's lap, straddling his hips gracefully.

"Let me return the favor, please," he whispered, his lips only a hair's width away from Sweden's own. Then France began to move, grinding against Sweden, deliberately pressing their vital regions together. Mouth dry, Sweden's hands moved to his waist, crushing through the feather down to clamp on his hipbones tightly, guiding him into place.

He was certain nothing else had ever warmed him up so quickly, and France's hitched little gasps and whines as he rocked in Sweden's lap threatened to undo the last of his self-composure. So that was why he did not protest when France leaned forward to press their lips together, tongue pushing through his teeth to explore his mouth. That was why he did not hesitate to squeeze at France's backside, although admittedly, the effect was somewhat attenuated by the layers of clothing they wore. That was why he was enjoying this.

By the jerkiness of his movements, the urgent neediness of his cries, Sweden could tell France was close, and he spilled the other nation out of his lap, causing him to sputter a curse. Swiftly, he pulled France to his knees, tugging his pants down just enough and reaching around to palm his erection, already hard and dripping. As a precaution, Sweden put his other hand over France's mouth, felt him bite down hard as he stroked him off, the sound of his release a thick spatter on the snow.

France was still shuddering and gulping down air when he sensed Sweden's cock pressed against the cleft of his buttocks. But even he was not prepared for sex while cross-country skiing, and without lube or condoms, Sweden had to settle for the next best thing. He let his aching length slide down and in between France's thighs, growling in pleasure at pushing through the tight space. France chuckled breathlessly and submitted to him, letting Sweden thrust between his closed legs with long, powerful strokes, hearing the other nation's harsh breathing quicken until finally he came, hot cum making a soft hissing noise as it dripped onto the snow-covered ground.

In the following hush, the first thing Sweden said was, "Guess y'can keep your legs together aft'r all," and France burst out into laughter.

" _Mon cher_ , I can do a lot of things that would surprise you."

They dressed in somewhat comfortable silence before important organs could freeze and fall off, and Sweden discreetly swept snow over the mess they made in the shelter. But as France seemed a lot more comfortable, and certainly a lot more pleased judging by his satisfied grin, he figured they can now finish the tour, or at least get to the next lift and take it down to the village.

* * *

At the base of the mountain, France said his farewells, promising to reimburse Sweden _thoroughly_ for his services. Sweden nodded curtly and then mumbled, "Apres ski?"

France interpreted this unenlightening phrase as best as he could. "Ah, you mean, what do I plan to do now? Eat dinner, for one thing, and sit in front of a fire for at least an hour."

Blushing faintly, Sweden cleared his throat and then mumbled even more softly, "Sauna?"

Now France was smirking like a cat that got into the cream. "I suppose I should experience the famous Swedish sauna sometime before I leave… It sounds exhilarating."

Before Sweden could react, France kissed him lightly on the lips. "I'll be waiting for you after dinner," he murmured seductively, and Sweden had to wonder if there was any way to make a French person hurry through a meal.

Probably not, but he was planning to stare very intently at France while he ate just to see if he could.

* * *

_[Author's Note: Thanks for reading, that is, if anyone is reading this rarepair, haha. I apologize one more time to anyone who knows the first thing about skiing or Swedish ski resorts, please feel free to correct me if I got anything wrong. This was crazy-difficult to write, so I am open to suggestions for improvement. Here is the famous ski resort they are at: www. skistar en/ Are/] (take out the spaces)]_


	2. If I Pay Thee Not in Gold (England/France fantasy RPG AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France/England: role-playing game fantasy AU, in which Francis is a thief and Arthur a paladin. De-anon from the kink meme.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur reined his horse in sharply and rode to the rescue of the lone survivor of their ill-fated battle party. He called out a warning to the rogue, who managed to scramble up behind him as the charger thundered by, knocking injured goblins out of the way.

The other man held on to both his rescuer and the Crown of Ebon Nights, recently plucked from the bloody head of the naga queen they just defeated, and barely managed to get out a breathless thanks.

"I wasn't trying to save you, thief," Arthur snapped back over his shoulder, feeling his face turn red. "I just need that crown for the bounty."

"Ever the knight in shining armor." The tone was gently mocking and grating as well.

But Arthur had no energy left to argue, just enough to guide his horse towards the city where a fabulous reward supposedly awaited. It better be worth it, he thought grimly as they galloped out of the haunted forest.

* * *

After they had traveled for some distance, the rogue leaned forward, so that their cheeks almost brushed and his long hair tickled the side of Arthur's face.

"Arthur, we need to stop."

"What? Why?" They were almost to the city, and he couldn't wait?

"Because I'm about to fall off and take you down with me." The too-bright eyes staring back at him were serious, and this close, Arthur could see just how deathly pale he looked.

"Why didn't you-?" Arthur cursed under his breath as he tried to maneuver his gallant steed off the road and into a clearing with one hand, the other hand occupied with holding tightly onto the arm with the crown in its grasp, just to make sure they didn't lose their prize as well.

It was a bit awkward, but they managed to dismount without either one falling over too much. As the rogue sat down against a tree, Arthur knelt beside him, making a soft noise of concern as he inspected the wound.

"Ye gods… you could have told me you were injured sooner than this."

"Ah… I didn't feel it until now."

Arthur barely refrained from rolling his eyes. While the wound slashing across the abdomen looked fairly shallow, it had been bleeding profusely during the harrowing escape. Luckily, the monsters around here did not carry poisoned weapons, and healing this was not beyond his paladin's training.

"Take off your shirt," he commanded, "and I'll see what I can do."

"My name is Francis, you recall? I believe you were the one who hired me for this quest," the rogue said petulantly as he took off his cloak and tunic, careful to not aggravate the injury any further. "It would not violate your precious honor to treat me as a human being once in a while."

Arthur glared at him, equally irritated by the fact that Francis never addressed him with the proper "ser", but he said nothing as he retrieved the standard issue medicine pack from a saddlebag.

"Here, drink this… Francis."

Francis took the vial with a trembling hand and sipped the liquid with caution, then promptly passed out, luckily falling onto his uninjured side.

"Finally…" Arthur muttered, as he opened the pack and pulled out a needle and thread.

* * *

When Francis woke, the sun had set and the cool night air smelled refreshingly free of monster corpses. He sat up and found himself dressed once more, the wound cleaned, stitched and bandaged neatly.

"I thought you were going to use your white magic," he complained, somewhat disappointed at this unromantic result. "You just knocked me out with a potion and then did something barbaric to my beautiful self. How could you, and claiming to be a holy knight?"

"Would you prefer me to let you bleed to death instead?" Arthur scoffed, trying to not sound as hurt as he really felt. He would not admit that he actually did use one minor spell on the rogue, the one to keep infection at bay - it was hardly worth mentioning, especially now that Francis opened his ungrateful mouth.

Looking around the makeshift camp, Francis could not help but notice that Arthur had pried the crown out of his fingers while he was unconscious and hidden it somewhere in the saddlebags. That bastard, hardly as noble as he claimed to be. But it would be easy to steal the treasure back once they reached the city, and he knew of a few black markets that would pay just as handsomely as a king for such a relic.

"I hope you weren't entertaining any ideas of stabbing me in my sleep and running away with the crown, Francis," Arthur's voice interrupted sternly. "The Order of the White Rose has a way of finding these things out, and I know they have very effective methods of extracting confession before you beg them to kill you out of mercy."

"Ah, I suppose I wouldn't make it far in my condition, anyway," Francis answered, tossing his hair. Very well, if the little ruffian wanted to be like that, then he should be prepared to suffer until they received their reward.

Finally, after attending to his horse and setting up the necessary wards and charms around the clearing, Arthur set his cloak and blanket down a little distance away from where Francis was sitting. The rogue smiled to himself as the other man tried to make a night on the hard earth more comfortable, looking just like a page boy in his plain undershirt and leggings. Without his armor and horse and sword, he seemed so small, and it was hard to believe that he owed his life to such a newly blessed young paladin.

Arthur noticed Francis watching him intently, and he frowned in disapproval.

"Get to sleep, we have a long day tomorrow."

"I just woke up, I can't go back to sleep now."

"Oh… right… Well, don't try anything funny, I might forget the paladin's code and strike you in self-defense."

Francis smiled again, dazzling as ever even in the dark. "Sleep well, my knight."

Blushing, Arthur turned away, pulling his cloak up and trying to still his treacherously racing heart.

* * *

The next morning, he woke up feeling a little sore but well-rested. He looked up to see Francis stirring something in a pot that smelled incredibly delicious.

"Good morning~!" Francis was not wearing a shirt, and the curly ends of his hair shone wetly in the sun – he must have just bathed. Arthur was pleased to see the bandages still white and pristine, it seemed that the rogue healed quickly.

"What are you making?" he asked, to distract himself from staring at Francis too long.

"Fish soup."

"How did-? Do you catch fish with your bare hands?" He knew he didn't have any fishing equipment, and he had no idea he had a pot either, but then again, Francis might have taken it from the soldiers in their party (may their souls rejoice forever in Valhalla.)

"Full of questions today, aren't we?" Francis grinned at him and then gestured towards where the river presumably lay. "You should go wash up, and we can eat and then get our reward."

Well, Arthur supposed he did smell a little pungent after yesterday's battle, so it would not hurt to clean up before calling on the members of the court.

* * *

Arthur thoroughly regretted that decision sometime later, as he stood shivering in the river, with Francis sitting on an outcropping section of the riverbank, smirking at him.

"Give me my clothes back, Francis. Please." He did not want to expose himself, but he had no idea where that blasted thief hid his clothes. The most embarrassing impasse ever.

The thief in question trailed a finger into the water, chuckling.

"Come here, my knight. I will make a bargain with you."

"What?" Arthur exploded, almost stomping his foot before he remembered that he was standing waist deep in a river with slippery mud. There was nothing to bargain about! "Just give me my clothes, you!"

Francis looked away stubbornly, and Arthur realized he had to give in or else die of pneumonia. He waded over to where Francis was sitting, the water still deep enough to preserve some modesty.

"All right… what do you want?" he grumbled, restraining himself from punching that smirk right off his pretty face. Francis looked like he was enjoying the sight before him way too much.

"Hmm… I think you owe me an apology for treating me so terribly when you needed me to steal the crown of the naga queen."

"I am sorry. I behaved most ignobly to you." Arthur hoped that was all, but then he found himself pulled in closer so that he was face to face with Francis.

"I am not convinced of your sincerity, Arthur. Give me a kiss and I will reconsider."

Bright red with humiliation, Arthur leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, but Francis only laughed.

"That would hardly get you your boots back, my knight! Try again."

Arthur closed his eyes, but before he could muster up the courage for a proper kiss, Francis had already returned it. Unprepared, Arthur felt a surge of white-hot pleasure running throughout his body and he whimpered at the heady sensation of a strange mouth against his, almost thankful for Francis' hands at his shoulders keeping him upright.

When they pulled apart, Arthur gasping for air and trembling all over, Francis murmured thoughtfully, "I guess that was tolerable."

"T-tolerable?"

But Francis had already gotten up to retrieve his clothes.

* * *

They argued over breakfast, Arthur's temper already unraveled from the incident at the river and Francis feeling somewhat affronted that Arthur was affronted. Then they argued over who was going to ride the very patient charger, Francis insisting that he could walk while Arthur refused to let him besmirch his honor any further.

The royal treasurer, a young nobleman by the name of Lord Basch, rolled his eyes at the still bickering duo before him - a young White Rose paladin somehow partnering with one of the most notorious thieves in the land. It was a miracle only three of the king's foot soldiers died on the quest and not, say, any innocent bystanders. Seeing this type of conflict before, the treasurer divided the gold and jewels in half and handed each a bag.

"Settle it amongst yourselves later, no more fighting here. This is most unbecoming."

* * *

He thought he could escape without being noticed, but the paladin seemed to have read his intentions and Francis was dragged back into their current base of operations (tonight, a room at the Frothing Otter inn.)

"You left your half of the treasure behind! What kind of thief are you?"

"I don't need it…" Francis replied nonchalantly, leaning back against the door.

"You don't need gold?" Arthur stared at him as if he had gone stark raving mad. "Then… well, I don't care, you're taking this, whether you need it or not!" He pushed the bag into Francis' hands stubbornly, but the rogue did not take it.

"I already got what I wanted, Arthur. You take my half and donate it to some orphanage, do whatever you want."

Green eyes looked up into his, confused and hurt and still a little angry. "But this is my payment for your services… I don't want to owe you."

"You have already paid me back in full, even if it was not in gold."

Francis brought his hand under the other's chin and then kissed him once more, sweet and chaste. "Farewell, my knight," he whispered.

But before he could open the door to leave in a dramatic fashion, a heavy bag of gold coins dropped onto his foot and he yelped in pain. Arthur took advantage of this and grabbed him by the hair, kissing him back fiercely.

"Don't leave me, Francis. You… you've cast a spell on me." Even though the knight was blushing again, his gaze was direct and unashamed. "And I am yours," he murmured, sounding a little incredulous at the words coming out of his mouth.

Ever so gently, Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur's shoulders, and they stood like that in silence, feeling the other's heart beating strong and sure.

No, Francis had cast no spell upon him, nothing more extraordinary than the act of simply falling in love. But he thought it was extraordinary enough.

* * *

"Is this truly all right, Arthur?" Francis asked quietly, sounding amused at their current situation. A thief and infamous scoundrel, lying in bed with a holy knight of the noblest order – even he would have never imagined this. (Well, perhaps he imagined it once or twice before, but that was mostly after he had drunk too much wine and usually by then his dreams included anyone and everyone, so it wasn't actually very unusual.)

Arthur looked up at him, heavy brows drawn together in consternation. "Of course it's all right! If by that, you mean… no, the order… does not have any vows against… this," he finished lamely, embarrassed but eager to continue.

"If you are sure…"

"I am definitely sure. I want to be with you, Francis, and no one else," Arthur whispered, desire evident in his tone.

Unable to resist, Francis kissed that delightful mouth yet again, for he thought he could never kiss it enough. He had always had unusually good luck, since it went with the profession, but to taste Arthur's innocent lips and tongue, to be the first to take him, he believed it was the greatest stroke of fortune yet.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" Arthur murmured, as he ran his fingers through the other's sun-kissed hair, marveling at this new and wonderful feeling that made his chest ache in a pleasing way. "I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you, Francis."

"I know it," Francis replied with another brilliant smile. It did not escape his observant eyes, the paladin's quickly smothered star-struck look when he first arrived at the inn to take the job. "But you are beautiful as well, Arthur, my very own angel." And he truly was, slim but well-muscled, with pale skin and golden hair and eyes a most mesmerizing shade of green, like those of a holy seraphim come to earth.

Arthur laughed at that, shaking his head in disbelief at the rogue's audacity. "That may work on a serving wench, but not on me. Kiss me again?" he pleaded, so invitingly.

"Of course, love." Francis followed the kiss on the lips with one on the throat, then more trailing down Arthur's chest, his hands tracing over faint scars across the ribs and down lean thighs. Underneath him, Arthur made soft noises of pleasure, wriggling helplessly as Francis flicked his tongue across a nipple with the lightest of touches.

"Ahhh… Francis… please…"

"Yes?" he murmured, now affectionately nibbling at a tender area on the hipbone.

"H-hurry up, you bastard. Or I'll strangle you, I will."

Even with that warning, Francis grinned and took his time preparing anyway, so that Arthur was almost ready to punch him in the stomach and re-open the wound. Or he would, if he could focus on something other than the clever fingers slowly stroking between his legs, sending wave after wave of ecstasy through his lower body. His mind shut down from the pleasure, Arthur was not able to even form the words to express his impatience and could only groan in overwhelming relief when he finally felt Francis enter him. Of course, Arthur was much too proud to admit the slightest hint of shock or pain at the strange sensation, and so he wrapped a leg around the other's waist, nodding encouragingly. For his knight's bravery, Francis leaned forward to reward him with another passionate kiss.

Alas, Francis would later regard it as the most painful act of deflowering he could ever remember because in the end, Arthur had to recite a healing spell for damage control, babbling his apologies, and then they both started crying (for different reasons), and things got extremely awkward.

After the two unlikely lovers calmed down from the accident and stopped crying, they returned to bed and curled up next to each other, sleepy and shy, yet very much content.

"You have stolen my heart, did you know that?"

"Would you like it back, love?"

"No, my heart belongs to you now."

"I will keep it safe, then, for mine belongs to you."

* * *

_[Author's Note: I had been planning to write more in this AU, just never got around to it. I wrote this years ago, so not my best work, but I enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoyed reading!]_


	3. Silver Bells and Cockle Shells (Belgium/France, courtship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France/Belgium: another country courts France; flowers, gifts, the works. De-anon from the kink meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written so long ago, Belgium was only a sketch and did not even have a personality. I feel that she has a slightly different cast to her character after reading her profile, but haven't changed this from its original, except for some grammar issues.

There were three flowers arranged in the vase: one scarlet poppy, one white lily, and one tulip of a rare deep blue shade. A valiant and rather unsubtle effort to bolster flagging spirits, he thought, but who could find fault with such an earnest gift?

He followed the lines of the stems upward to rest his gaze on the familiar face smiling at him from behind the blossoms.

"Do you like them?" she asked hopefully, slender battle-scarred fingers fiddling with the ribbon in her hair in uncharacteristic unease.

He nodded and murmured his thanks, _merci beaucoup_ , found himself smiling back in response to her obvious delight. Leaning over the expanse of the table separating them, she kissed his cheek in triumph and excused herself to finish preparing breakfast.

Banned from exerting himself where she temporarily ruled, he stood off to the side with coffee cup in hand, and watched her flip a crepe into the air with a flick of the wrist, catching it in the pan expertly. She looked over at him and winked, and he could remember a similar spring morning many years past, how they had ended up with burnt or runny blobs of batter all over the kitchen floor, but finally, with his hand over hers to guide, she managed to catch one just right. Secretly, he cherished the sound of their surprised laughter in that one perfect moment, brought it out with other such memories during the darkest days of the war, when they fought side by side, waiting desperately for reinforcements that came too late, losing so much ground before the German forces, once, twice…

She would not hear of him leaving without eating everything set out on the table, pouted and glared, begged and finally threatened to shove the crepes into his mouth herself. Was her cooking not good enough, she asked hotly, and he quickly reassured her that while everything looked delicious, he could not eat for four people, possibly five.

"But you are so thin, you must eat more. I know you haven't been eating well, don't deny it."

For empty wine bottles were all she found when she opened the dustbin earlier that morning, and one lone cheeseburger wrapper that she was sure he did not purchase, at least not of his own will.

Fork in hand, she set about feeding him with the unstoppable determination of a sister on a mission. And when he started eyeing the back door of the kitchen, she crushed any hopes of escape by sitting on his lap and wrapping an arm about his shoulders. Surrendering gladly, he settled back into the chair and balanced her carefully with one hand at her too narrow waist.

"Out of love, I will humor you, _ma soeur_. Just this once."

"I am glad you are seeing some sense. Now, open your mouth."

He did, closing his eyes and missing the embarrassed flush that momentarily tinged her cheeks.

At last his pleas of fullness convinced her, and she admitted that she may have gone overboard making a dozen waffles, plus the crepes and toast and quiche and chocolate-dipped strawberries and yogurt, not to mention the chocolates and coffee and milk and fruit juices still waiting to be sampled. One last bite, and no more, she promised, so he held her to that, bravely finishing one especially large spoonful of quiche.

Sighing, full and contented, he reached up automatically to wipe a spot of crème fraîche off her lower lip. In response, she dipped her head and caught his finger in between her teeth, then gently sucked at his fingers, licking one after the other, looking up at him through long blond lashes while he stared, mouth suddenly gone dry. When she finally drew rosy lips back and away, releasing his hand, he leaned forward to firmly press his mouth against hers, to claim what he should have taken years ago, yet for some reason never did.

In any other situation, there would have been heavenly choirs of angels singing, white doves taking off into the air, rainbows and glitter sparkling everywhere. But if such things occurred, he was too occupied tasting the fresh sweetness of her mouth to notice. They parted at last for air, cheeks flushed, eyes shining, and the first thing he said was...

"Chocolate beer in the morning? Seriously, Belgium?"

She giggled, corrected him – no, it was double chocolate stout - and gave him a full account of her latest concoction, inviting him to take a sample from the small keg sitting in the icebox, while he shook his head in amazement at her obsession.

Well, he supposed it did explain a few things…

Then Belgium stood up, a secretive smile gracing her lips, and told him to leave cleaning up for later. She took his hand and led him out to the garden in the back, her skirts practically bouncing from the cheerful energy in her steps. France almost forgot that there was a garden for this particular house, but he had made love out in the open air several (dozen, hundred) times before, so he looked forward to seeing it again in that capacity. Unfortunately, that was not what she had in mind, he soon discovered.

"I hope you don't mind me cleaning up the flowerbeds," she said, "they were overrun with weeds. And cigarette butts." She glared at him disapprovingly with that last statement, but France merely shrugged, knowing she smoked these days as well.

Now dragging him to the shed tucked away in a corner of the lawn, Belgium proudly opened up a flat wooden box, showing him a variety of bulbs nestled in dried moss within each compartment.

"These are for you, France. I thought perhaps you might like to plant these sometime, now that… now that things have gotten better…"

"You did not have to do all of this, _ma cherie_ ," was his only response.

"But beautiful people deserve beautiful things, is that not true?" she murmured, with a coy glance in his direction. Coming from any other person, France would have teased them for sounding so cheesy, but she knew his cadences as well as her own, and delivered the line pitch-perfect.

He smiled to himself, thoroughly charmed, and ran a hand lightly over the delicate paper-like coverings of each bulb. Though it had been years since he had the time to attend to a garden, the knowledge came back to him easily. _Iris, narcisses, crocus, jacinthes, jonquil, lily, tulipe_ \- of course tulips, he thought, fleetingly jealous of her other brother, her true sibling… but what were these?

"That's garlic, you have some in your kitchen."

"Ah… I knew that." France cleared his throat, embarrassed, while she snorted, then laughed out loud, the sound as bright and joyful as wedding bells.

Setting the box down, the two of them left the shed and walked along the dainty gravel path through the garden, quietly enjoying the sights and smells and sounds of a peaceful morning in Paris.

It was not so long ago that he was helping rebuild the war-torn city, mind numbed to the horrors he had witnessed, ears deaf to the soft roar of despair, tongue unable to taste anything other than ashes and mud. He could not even imagine what it must have been like to rebuild her lands, yet here they were, reveling in the rewards of their labor, at peace with the world for the first time in many years.

"I've missed this…"

"I've missed it, too."

They were at the steps leading back to the house now, and Belgium untangled her fingers from his, so slowly, so wistfully, muttering her apologies for intruding on his time, wishing him the best for his recovery.

"Wait… Can you not stay for a little while longer?" he asked, almost pleaded.

"Ah, well… I would love to, if I did not have so much work back home."

"You have worked hard enough. Don't go just yet," he whispered, drawing her close enough to feel her wildly beating heart, the heat from her soft skin, the silken fineness of her golden hair.

"Stay with me, Belgium." That was what he wanted, yes, and he could only hope she felt the same.

She faltered, biting her lower lip, indecisive as ever, but finally met his eyes and smiled. "Of course, France, I will stay."

He kissed her again, lightly on the lips, grateful, adoring, so incredibly happy to be loved - then figured that she probably wanted to take the keg back home.

* * *

He led the way now, and Belgium was content to follow him up the stairway, into the bedroom, all the while clasping his hand tightly, as if she feared to snap the tenuous thread that bound them together this idyllic morning. Tomorrow things could change between them, but today, there were memories to make, to treasure and cherish, though dark times may lie ahead.

Standing together in the elegant bareness of his room, a light breeze blowing in through tall windows, Belgium self-consciously reached to undo the buttons of his shirt. It was just France, only her foolish, useless, love-addled sibling to the west, whom she had known for centuries, whom she had fought alongside more often than against. Yet the magnitude of her boldness overwhelmed her, now that she really thought about what she was attempting to do, and she froze under the intensity of that azure blue gaze, unable to find the right words through the constant turmoil of her ever divided thoughts.

France, mistaking her shyness for reluctance or even anxiety, gently kissed her work-roughened knuckles as if they were the pampered hands of a princess - for indeed, she stood out like a princess among the brutes and bullies of Europe. (Though of course, he was biased on this point.) Truthfully, he worried that it was too soon after the war, and he knew the pain of opening wounds not yet completely healed.

" _Ma fleur,_ " France whispered tenderly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "My sweet brave belle… Please, do not feel like you have to do anything else for me. You have done more than enough already, I am truly thankful."

But she shook her head, _non, non,_ her green eyes bright. "It's nothing like that, France. Because I want to be with you, right here, right now. You make me… you make me angry sometimes, but you make me happy, too." She laughed sheepishly, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, you must think I'm so silly…"

He thought his heart would break for her honesty, her pure affection, like the love of that girl he could never forget. How could he resist?

"No, you are not silly, dearest, not at all. When is love ever silly?"

She uncovered her eyes and blinked, lips parted in surprise as she considered his words.

"Do you mean…?"

He shushed her with a soft sound, and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling her close, to make his intentions clear. There would be no turning back now, and he knew by the answering glow in her lovely face that she came to him willingly, with no regrets.

Shyly, Belgium guided his fingers to the sash at her waist, untying the bow there. With graceful, practiced motions, he unbuttoned the front of her dress, bending closer to place a kiss over each area of skin bared by the parting of soft fabric. She giggled at the light brush of his lips against her collarbone, down her sternum, over the curve of her breasts, and she ran her fingers through his hair, admiring how the sunlight glanced off of deep golden strands. France was not quite beautiful, not as stunning as he used to be in his youth, but somehow his allure remained irresistible, and his confidence well-deserved. Though Belgium had kept her feelings secret, and harangued him and scolded him as any sister would, she knew better than to deny or prevent love from blooming where it will.

* * *

The air was sultry, almost shimmery and hazy in the light of the late morning sun. Sighing reluctantly, France slid out of bed and went over to open the windows, to let in a cool breeze, the distant sounds of traffic below, the occasional birdsong outside. He settled back onto the mattress, resting on his side as Belgium looked up at him through half-closed eyes. She looked so peaceful, so sweetly content, lying on her stomach, a pillow cushioning her face and arms. Unable to resist, he traced a finger over the still-healing purple scar on her back, the one that matched his, and she shivered under his caress, though she did not flinch. In his mind's eye, he could see the gash of scarlet poppies against the bleak landscape of abandoned battlefields, like the bloom of blood across her shoulderblades as he tried to remove the shrapnel with hands trembling violently from too little sleep and too much adrenaline.

"I have always wondered why you are not angrier with me," he mused, not bitter, just resigned.

"Oh, France, I am always furious with you for something or other," she murmured lazily. "But it does not mean I hate you. That, I believe, is someone else's right."

"…Ouch."

"Nothing more than you deserve, idiot." But she said this while smiling, and he returned it with a kiss.

As they lay in bed, relaxing in each other's familiar company, there soon came the unmistakable sound of a car pulling up into the driveway.

"Who can that be?" France wondered aloud, sitting up. Did he invite someone and not remember it?

"I think I have an idea," Belgium replied from where she was rummaging through the clothes on the floor and finding his shirt to slip on. The two drifted over to the window as car doors slammed and familiar voices reverberated through the air.

"Hallo!" she called out, waving to the three nations down below. "If it isn't Johnny Come-lately and his Come-lateliers!"

England grimaced and tried to hide the bouquet of roses behind his back, but France could see them clearly from his vantage point and grinned.

America waved back to them, seemingly oblivious to the insult. "Are you still talking about the fries thing? Sorry about that, but it already caught on in my home!" At his side, Canada smiled nervously and then kept his eyes on the ground, not daring to look up again.

"And what brings you here, _Angleterre_?" France asked of his sometimes ally, more often times enemy. "My stunning good looks? My superior cuisine? Perhaps a delightful combination of both?"

England blushed and muttered something, and Belgium cheerfully requested him to speak louder.

"I said, we have not seen you in a while, and we were dropping by to see if your economies are quite all right." Something unspoken, something tense but not quite unfriendly, passed through the distance between the three European nations, and for his part, America finally realized that both France and Belgium were mostly naked.

After a brief moment's hesitation, France smiled and finally answered, "I think we are doing much better. Especially now that good friends are here." He glanced at Belgium, who nodded in agreement.

"England, America, Canada, why don't you stay for lunch?"

"I will be happy to cook you something to eat!" Belgium added.

The North American brothers looked up with identical expressions of ecstatic relief on their faces, obviously forced to endure a British breakfast that morning. England snorted scornfully, red-faced as ever, though he gave in at last.

"Very well, we will stay… But you two better put on some clothes, for heaven's sake."


	4. Le Loup et L'Agneau (France/Liechtenstein - cake)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France/Liechtenstein: for the prompt, France/anyone, cake, just fluff. De-anon from the kink meme from several years ago, ergo the slightly off characterization of Liech, my bad.

A bell tinkled sweetly, heralding a visitor to this small bakery. Nervously, and understandably so, Liechtenstein called out a soft " _Bonjour_ " from the doorway, almost hoping her host had forgotten about the appointment. But she had traveled all this way by herself, and it was for a very important purpose, so she gathered her courage and stepped into the shop.

The bakery had closed early, the family who owned it having left for the afternoon, and without customers sitting at the tables or ordering pastries, the atmosphere seemed peaceful and calm. Clearly France was thinking of her when he chose this particular address instead of a much fancier locale in Paris. And with its pale yellow walls and baskets of wildflowers by the window, glass cases unfortunately empty of the exquisite pastries that must have been on display, nothing could have been more pleasant or comforting.

Only a few moments later, France emerged from within the kitchen and into the front of the bakery, wiping his hands on a towel.

"Ah, Liechtenstein, I apologize for the wait," he said, smiling warmly. "I had something to attend to, but you have my full attention now." He stepped out from behind the counter, motioning for her to come closer. "How may I assist you?"

Shyly, Liechtenstein stood up and smoothed the front of her skirt before meeting him by the cash register, feeling somewhat shabby next to France in his immaculate white chef's jacket. She hesitated before starting, since her request sounded silly in her mind, but he had replied to her email within thirty minutes of her clicking "send," so that meant he must surely be able to help her, and wanted to as well.

"Thank you, France. I-I know you must be busy, and I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me regarding this." She blushed deeply, bringing a hand up to her face in embarrassment as she continued. "If it is not too much trouble, I hope you could show me how to decorate a cake," she whispered.

"Of course, my dear, anything you wish," France replied, patting the top of her head affectionately, causing her to blush even more. "But may I ask what is wrong with Austria or Germany's style? Why ask me, when their tastes must surely coincide with yours more?" Seeing as she must have been warned about his wicked ways…

"Oh, this is for… for my brother. I really wanted to give Switzerland something special and…"

"And more aesthetically pleasing?" he finished, which caused her to giggle despite her nervousness. Actually, Germany and Austria produced delicious recipes which France had often borr- _incorporated_ into his own cuisine, but they tended to focus on satisfying one's stomach rather than delighting one's eyes. His cakes, on the other hand, were works of art, as well as delicious.

"Please, follow me, Liechtenstein, and we can discuss this further in the kitchen. Perhaps you will be able to learn something useful?"

"That sounds wonderful. Thank you so much!" she answered gratefully, tagging along after him.

After she put on an apron and washed her hands, Liechtenstein watched in rapt fascination as France showed her what he had been working on. He brought out a small culinary grade blow torch, and with a few deft movements, finished melding the last few petals onto a nearly completed rose.

"Th-this is made of sugar?" she asked, hardly believing that such a delicate, glass-like sculpture could be crafted out of something so mundane.

" _Oui_ , it is just sugar, syrup, water, some coloring, nothing more. Unfortunately, sugar pulling and sugar blowing are difficult techniques and can take years to master."

She looked slightly disappointed at that, so he smiled and handed her the flower.

"Here, as a reminder that I should teach you sometime, _ma cherie._ "

Liechtenstein stared at him in astonishment, and then wistfully set the rose back down on the counter. "France, I can not accept this. It is so pretty, I would feel terrible if I broke it!"

"Tell me if it breaks or melts, and I will make you another, or as many as you would like," he assured her airily. "But let us move onto something more important. Tell me about this cake you want to make, and why you wish to impress your brother."

She found it difficult to explain at first, since she was hardly aware herself of what emotion inspired her to suddenly buy a train ticket to the French countryside. It turned out that Switzerland was kept busy regarding the recent international scandals, and as per his frugal nature, ate only to keep himself alive while he worked. Liechtenstein thought of making him something nice to eat, and eventually decided to bake a cake simple enough for him to enjoy without guilt, but pretty enough to show how much she cared for his happiness. Secretly, France had his doubts that Switzerland could be happy about anything, but he only smiled and nodded at the girl, who was brimming over with sisterly affection.

"That is a very admirable sentiment!" France murmured thoughtfully once she finished. "Since we want to make something for Switzerland, it would make sense to work with chocolate first, _non_?"

Without any warning, he placed his hands over her smaller ones, inspecting the slender pale fingers with professional interest. "Hmm, your hands are cooler and more delicate than mine, so I think this would suit you perfectly. Let's begin, shall we?"

They started by rolling out a lump of chocolate paste, then cutting out petal and leaf shapes and joining them with melted chocolate, to form various roses, lilies and daisies, whatever flower they could imagine. Encouraged by the ease of making chocolate flowers from the paste, Liechtenstein asked if there was anything else she could try. Grinning, France showed her a photo album of the bakery's past creations, the small collection of candy pieces, including carved chocolate and molded chocolate. Some of them looked simple, abstract marbled slices and fanciful swirls, others were realistic, graceful birds and flowers and even buildings, far more beautiful than the straightforward chocolate bars she often ate.

"You can eat all of this?" she asked in awe.

"Of course! Though I would not recommend eating an actual sculpture, everything you see is edible."

Liechtenstein took careful notes of whatever advice France had to offer regarding cake decoration, though eventually he had to defer to Belgium's superior knowledge of the actual ingredient itself.

"I only make the chocolate look beautiful, _mon agneau_ , the rest I leave to your brother and my sister's experienced hands."

"Oh, but this is still incredible, and so much more than I ever expected to learn. Brother would be so impressed, I think."

Sensing that Liechtenstein was looking a little tired, France suggested they take a break, and she gladly agreed.

The two of them took seats on a table by the window, basking in the late afternoon light. France got himself chardonnay to drink, and he poured Liechtenstein a glass of sparkling fruit juice. They toasted to chocolate, of course, and Liechtenstein had to giggle at her daring to act like an adult. Too bad her brother was not there to see.

After ducking into the refrigerator, France triumphantly set a plate with a slice of chocolate cake in front of Liechtenstein, the dessert resting on a lattice of solid dark chocolate, topped with a generous dollop of whipped crème fraiche and a sugar-frosted strawberry.

It was almost too lovely to eat, so France resorted to putting a forkful of cake right in front of her lips and Liechtenstein was forced to open her mouth and taste it. There was an explosion of rich, heady flavor upon her tongue as she bit down, dark and chocolatey, with a warm spicy undercurrent, and for a long moment, the only sound she made was a barely audible squeak of pleasure.

"Try this one next," France offered, pushing the first plate out of the way and replacing it with another plate, this time holding a slice of golden cake layered between so much cream it threatened to fall over, drizzled with syrup and flaked almonds. Liechtenstein needed no encouragement to taste a generous forkful, smiling in bliss at the combination of flavors and textures, nutty and creamy and sweet, suffusing her entire body with warmth. Even her own people's prosperity and high quality of life would not have been enough to prepare her to handle such indulgence, and she could feel a hot flush creeping up her cheeks and ears.

"I-I could never make cakes as perfect as these," she admitted quietly, realizing just how inexperienced she must seem to the older nation.

"That is not true," France disagreed. "Even the least attractive cake would seem beautiful to the recipient if you make it with care and love." He knew his cooking was the best in the world precisely because he never forgot to add that special, vital ingredient. "Unlike chocolate or cream or eggs or flour, you can never run out of love."

It was so over-the-top romantic, so France-like, Liechtenstein could not help but laugh. "You are right, of course." She sighed happily and did not refuse the third slice of cake he set in front of her, this time more chocolate, accompanied by a mouthwatering aroma of coffee - his personal favorite cake recipe.

France moved his chair closer to Liechtenstein's, sipping his wine as he observed her finishing the cake, admiring her sweet innocence and subdued yet genuine joy. Finally, she dabbed at her lips with a napkin, and he could not help but lean over and place his hand under her chin, staring deeply into those wide green eyes, breathing in her light, girlish scent. Feeling almost faint, she opened her mouth to try to say something, but she was dazzled by France's serious, handsome expression, the way the sunlight glanced off of his tied-back hair, the warmth of his fingers on her skin that threatened to set her already warm body on fire. Liechtenstein closed her eyes, felt his lips brush against hers, tasting faintly of wine, and she hesitated one second too long before pulling away.

"Oh, France," she breathed, "I don't think my brother would like that."

"Certainly not if it came from me," he teased softly, kissing her once more on her forehead. "Tell me, what would he like, then?"

She paused and then kissed him lightly on the cheek, which he certainly did not expect. "He would like me to go home, and he would not like to know that I spoke to you."

When France saw her off at the train station, her thin arms full of boxes and bags, she turned around before boarding the train and smiled at him angelically. "Someday, when I am older, I would like to return and learn more from you, France."

"I would be glad to teach you all I know. You are welcome any time, Liechtenstein."

* * *

[epilogue]

"I flew over as soon as I could. What happened?" Canada asked, looking dreadfully worried for his father figure's life.

"Apparently Switzerland shot him for getting his little sister inebriated and trying to seduce her," America replied.

"Oh. Er…" Canada tried to look concerned, but France doing something as outrageous as this was really nothing new.

"You know, I really should look into how he survives a direct headshot from an SG-550 assault rifle…"

"Don't talk about me as if I'm not here," France grumbled, disappointed that the sexy nurse was assigned to another ward.


	5. Message (France/England - massage)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "France and England in a relationship mostly defined by sexual activity, excessive snarking, sleepovers, and mutual extortion. Yes, they are using each other. ...Except, like, one of them has genuine romantic feelings, which are kept too subtle or shown via enigmatic messages or gestures, for the other while this other is all in it for the benefits and nothing more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> France and England as lovers without benefits. Bonus sensual massage scene for the win.

It had been over a thousand years since they first locked eyes from across the channel, and other than a few blips throughout the centuries of what may be termed as "alliances" by more ignorant persons, it was mutual loathing from the start. Their antagonism lost some steam after a few centuries of constant warring, but if England ever wanted to start a fight over something ridiculously petty, France was always more than happy to oblige him.

And if the fights should eventually, somehow, lead to another sort of physical exertion, the type more often played out in bed, France would never refuse, on the grounds that refusal of that sort would be no better than admitting defeat, which of course, he never did… if he could help it. As for England, he must surely be content with this state of affairs, for he would always express his disapproval, in no uncertain terms, whenever anyone else decided to beat up France or insult France or even look at him in anything other than the most professional of manners.

But sometimes, after another night of heated arguing and even fiercer sex, one would lie awake in the darkness, wondering about what might have been.

In the dreams, they were lovers in love. Instead of blood-letting and death threats, there were tokens of affection and whispered endearments. Every moment spent together was heaven, and when separated, every cell of their bodies, down to the tiniest mitochondrion, longed for the other's presence. Perhaps there were still scuffles, but they always made up afterwards, and their understanding for each other thus matured like fine wine or cheese.

But those were only dreams, fantasies spun of moonbeams and fairy songs and other pretty metaphors that England's authors invented, never to become reality. This was their reality, a constant enmity broken up only by periods of mutual extortion in the guise of cooperation, a never-ending effort to either get ahead or at least keep the other one down.

It made him feel a little sad. He thought he would have made a very fine Roquefort.

* * *

"What? Are you still up?" England snuffled drowsily and flopped onto his other side, seeking the cool, untouched side of the pillow.

"Oui, it is hard to get any rest after confronting your monstrous eyebrows," France murmured, poking England's forehead with unusual fondness.

He was promptly smacked on the shoulder. "Go back to sleep, frog, 'm tired."

There was a brief awkward silence, and England could not quite get rid of the notion that France was watching him even though it was too dark to see anything clearly.

"Would you like me to give you a message?" France asked, his voice so soft England had to edge forward to hear him, and even then, he was not sure he heard right.

"…You mean a massage, right?"

"Yes." France smiled, or possibly leered. "That is what I meant. A massage, you certainly need one."

"And what do you want in return?" England countered warily, for France never offered something without a payment in mind.

The other nation closed his eyes, the smile disappearing for a moment before returning in its usual perverse glory. "The usual, _Angleterre_ , the usual."

"Of course." Another pause, to consider if he would be losing any advantage in this. "All right, then."

Lying on his stomach, England held back a curse as France pulled away the covers, exposing their naked selves to the cool air. He grumbled in impatience while France scrabbled around for something on the bedside table and so was caught off guard when France placed a warm kiss on the base of his neck, on the vertebrae between his shoulder blades, with a muffled whisper.

"Mmmf, what did you just say?"

"Nothing you have not heard before, _mon cher_." Though perhaps he meant it this time.

France poured out some of the warming massage oil onto his hands, and with the tip of his finger, traced fanciful sweet confessions over the skin of England's back, where the other would never see and never guess. But perhaps the meaning would be absorbed into his skin and blood, a secret straight from one heart to another with no words, no noises, no language barrier to get in the way.

_Je t'aime. Je t'adore_. I cherish you. I want to be with you-

"Stop, that tickles," England muttered breathlessly.

"My apologies." Another kiss, just as tender as the one before. "Shall I start now?"

Not waiting for an answer, France knelt over England's prone form, straddling his legs, and lightly prodded his back with oiled fingers. Under the twisted scars left from battles past, he could feel muscles still knotted and tense even after their latest activity, which he took note of for next time, because there would be a next time, no matter what they claimed tonight. Then France began to work at the knots in earnest, rubbing and kneading at the tightness with his thumbs and palms, trying to loosen the muscles bit by bit. Other than the occasional grunt, England kept quiet during the process, and he was not sure if he liked that better than the bitter running commentary throughout their, for lack of a more hateful word, fucking.

Finally, England said, "You're not very good at this, France. I am not feeling any more-"

At which point, France dug the heel of his palm deep into England's ribcage, putting the majority of his weight onto his hand.

"Ack! Ow, fuck, what the hell?!" England exclaimed, writhing frantically, fingers digging into the sheets.

"Oh, did that hurt?" the other nation asked as he repeated the motion on the right side, with even more vindictiveness.

"Yes! Stop it!" he gasped.

The agony stopped as suddenly as it started and England took a deep shuddering breath.

"But do you feel better now?"

"…Actually… yes, a little." A shifting of muscles and bones under his palms, sliding into a more relaxed and comfortable position, followed by an exhalation that was almost a sigh. "Do it again..." And even quieter. "Please."

"As you wish." But he did not get much further into his "massage" before England abruptly turned over, his cheeks reddened, his gaze dark with need, with desire, and France received the payment that he did not really want.

How pathetic, that every favor England accepted from France had to be accepted painfully, as if there must always be a victim and a perpetrator in their relationship, no matter the situation. Even his stubborn body would not be satisfied with something as simple and intimate as a gentle back massage, and needed to temper pleasure with pain.

Laughing to himself, at himself, France surrendered to England's demands, knowing his message would never be heard through the static noise of their past.

Just as well. England would have made a terribly bitter wine.


	6. Full of Grace (France/Marianne, France/England/Marianne)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France/Marianne, France/England/Marianne: how France met the personification of La Republique Francaise, and their relationship throughout the years.

**..Dawn...**

He first saw her during the Reign of Terror, the young woman who haunted the edges of his fevered vision, the sole smiling face to be found in the midst of the shouting, suffering masses. From the tip of her scarlet cap to the heels of her worn out leather boots, she was the embodiment of defiance and self-assured enlightenment, all swaggering hips, boldness defined. Though he could barely keep himself together through the clouds of paranoia and pantaloon-soiling terror, he thought of the woman fondly, and wished to discover her name so that he could refer to her as something other than 'that troublesome bitch.'

He got his wish sooner than expected. The elegant and ever-classy France was in the middle of vomiting up his breakfast into a bucket when the young republic came calling, waltzing into the dank little room as if she owned the place. Of course, he only realized who and what she was once he felt her fingers brush the matted dirty hair out of his face. There was no mistaking that sudden electric shock at her touch, and the nausea came back even stronger than before as the remaining contents of his stomach tried to make a break for it. Taking a deep breath, France gathered enough sense to ask her if she sprang from his mind dressed in full armor like Pallas reborn, seeing as that could explain his splitting headache.

She laughed, a rich full-throated sound that did not belong in such dismal surroundings, and then patted his arm soothingly.

"No, I am not her. Only Marianne, at your service." She nodded, hardly respectful but trying anyway, and while distrustful of her intentions, he could not help but admire her handsome features, lush red lips, loose black curls, as dark as he was fair. "I think you know who I am?"

"You've come to replace me," he whispered dryly, wondering why he was still alive to be subjected to this humiliation. "Because I have failed to keep myself together. The irony of it does not escape me, you know." He smiled bitterly and wondered if _that girl_ would forgive him for having the worthless king and his wasteful queen executed, so that the rest may have a (very small) chance of a better life, for dismantling what she fought to make whole - it seemed so disrespectful to her precious memory.

Marianne sat down on the filthy mattress, regarding him with brilliant hazel eyes. "Do you really believe that? You don't think the two of us can coexist? Look, I was born to help you, and I shall, whether you want me to or not." She placed a hand over his, leaning in closer, to devastating effect. "So why don't we try first, dearest France, before thinking of surrender? Let's try, and together, we could bring this land out of misery and into glory, as destiny intended."

Oh, he doubted it would work - he had never heard of such a thing, or at least no other nation admitted to such a dilemma - but his flagging attention kept drifting downwards, to her next most attractive features. With a shrug, France finally said, "Very well, let us try… Things can not possibly get any worse, right?"

In response, he received an enthusiastic hug and kiss, followed by an exclamation that he absolutely needed to take a bath before the century ended. Before France could muster up the energy to protest, he found himself sitting naked in a tub of increasingly dirty water, getting his back scrubbed by his sister/daughter/replacement. Marianne rinsed the grime out of his hair and skin, humming that bloodthirsty anthem while he sat still and tried to not look too embarrassed about needing yet another young woman to extract him out of the mess he made.

After drying himself off, France would have liked nothing more than to rest, but she had already returned with a set of clean and definitely lower-class clothing.

"Here, put these on, and hurry. I think we'll need to leave very soon. Like now."

He made a face, but as the master of swift exits, he put on the shirt and pants and fashionable clogs without argument, and helped his lovely accomplice out the window. Somehow they missed landing into the large pile of horse manure – apparently that was the reason for the clogs - and with encouraging words and occasional slaps to the back of his aching head, Marianne led France out into the dawn of a new republic.

* * *

**...Noon...**

Several years later, they ran into each other on the road, he in full officer dress and riding a magnificent stallion, she holding a basket of fruit to sell in the market. For a few seconds, they could only stare in shock, having lost track of each other during the desperate rally to set things right after the chaos of the revolution.

Then she threw a tomato at him. It splattered over his spotless uniform jacket, quickly staining the gold braid red.

"That was a waste of food, Marianne. Children are starving… somewhere."

"Ungrateful wretch! A more arrogant Judas I have yet to see! I hope you burn in the agony of mysterious diseases you've contracted from foreign prostitutes!" She paused to take a breath and continued in a slightly calmer tone. "You've risen so fast, France, simpering at the feet of your little emperor. Your _liberté, egalité, fraternité_ \- tossed aside for a man who treats Europe like a game to be won. Have you forgotten about me, Marianne, who helped you when you thought you were going to die?"

" _Ma couer_ , I could not forget about you even if I tried," France said diplomatically.

"I know what you really mean, bastard, I'm the same as you, remember?" She seemed to be working herself back up into a fine temper and was reining it back with difficulty. Sighing deeply, she said in an otherwise reasonable tone. "France… you have gone mad…"

He nodded in agreement – after all, he was talking to a female version of himself, even England could not come up with a more original way to act insane and that one talked to fairies. "On the other hand, most mad people do not believe they are mad."

"You will lose everything we have fought for." Despite the rash of incredible victories, the emperor would not be able to maintain his empire. They both knew this, with sickening certainty.

"At least I shall lose fashionably."

She threw a tomato at him as a parting gift, this time rotten, so as to not waste the good tomatoes. He rode off to rejoin the legion with her curses still ringing in his ears.

* * *

**...Afternoon...**

"Well… France is technically not an empire anymore…"  
"No."  
"But you are still angry with me?"  
"Correct."

* * *

**...Dusk...**

When Marianne next rose to influence, it was only for a brief while. But he could rest now, after the terror that infected the whole of the continent and brought the shadow of death over his fellow nations.

He loved the sight of Marianne then, she had never looked so beautiful, so awe-inspiring. She stood tall and regal, the Phrygian cap bright against her black hair, one breast bared for some reason he could not fathom but which he entirely approved of, the red and white and blue flag streaming in the wind behind her impressive silhouette. Her expression was serious, as if recognizing the pain and turmoil that her birth had wrought, but her eyes glowed with a passionate love for _les citoyens_ , her children.

Though the second empire would put her underground in just a few years, her presence was now deeply engrained into the minds of the people, and what she symbolized a (nearly) universally recognized right.

She would not die so easily, and neither would he.

* * *

**...Evening...**

Sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, France watched Marianne arrange her hair, admiring her shapely image in the full-length mirror. Because it was a very important, very stubborn person she would be courting tonight, her colors glowed more vividly than ever, full lips a vibrant crimson, eyes glittering like gold-flecked tourmalines, an excited flush staining her cheeks. Marianne would stun him, seduce him, win him over before the first hour of their meeting passed. She must, if they were to survive.

Right now she was wearing only a silk chemise that barely covered her hips, creamy round shoulders left exposed to kisses, and he got up to promptly indulge himself to those, breathing in the musky scent of her perfume. The republic giggled and leaned back against him with a sigh that would fell any young man caught staring at her bosom.

"Do you find me irresistible?" she asked, batting long eyelashes at his reflection.

"Of course, I do, _ma cherie_. But then again, you are me." France leaned forward to press his lips against her cheek, one hand sliding across her thighs, squeezing with the slightest bit of pressure and causing her to squeal girlishly. He chuckled, soft and indulgent, and glanced at the figures mirroring their actions. How ravishing the two of them looked together, his sunlight hair tangling into her midnight waves, her luscious curves contrasting with the spare clean lines of his limbs.

That repressed little island was as good as theirs.

So before the end of the night, the papers were signed, the terms hammered out, past differences almost but not quite resolved. Both France and England, under the shadow of a greater threat to the east, had agreed to not immediately fight at the slightest provocation, ending nearly a thousand years of enmity and war.

"Jolly good," England muttered, his face reddening as he tried his best to not look at Marianne's practically bare breasts or even worse, France's triumphant smirk.

Oh, England had protested at first, called them depraved, indecent, sex-obsessed, refused to even take off his hat once they cornered him in the lavish suite with the intent of "sealing" their secret alliance, to make sure he would not change his mind later. But France was not one to give up, at least not in this area, and between the two of them, they soon had England naked and tangled in the sheets, cursing and begging and screaming until he was hoarse. Jolly good indeed.

"Wasn't this a wonderful idea?" she murmured, after England had drifted off to sleep, his cheek pillowed against her breasts. In the light of their mutual afterglow, she looked gorgeous, and he envied his fellow nation very much at that moment.

" _Oui_ , of course," he agreed softly, combing through England's hair with his fingers, like he used to do when they were children, so very long ago. "Thank you for your assistance, Marianne. I may not have succeeded so thoroughly without your unfailing logic."

"I would do anything for you, dear France," she whispered, her voice serious. "I would sleep with anyone. I'd lie or beg or steal or even kill, anything to save the republic."

He regarded her thoughtfully, knowing she had killed before, and would not hesitate to do so again. "Hopefully, you won't have to do any of that. It is not a woman's place to risk her life, or to take one."

"But I am no ordinary woman, and I am not fighting for an ordinary purpose."

France buried his nose into England's thick hair to hide his smile, causing the other to hunch his shoulder involuntarily. "No, you are right, Marianne."

Drowsily, England told them to shut up and find something else to do with their mouths. The two of them obeyed at once, and much to his regret, he enjoyed it exceedingly.

* * *

**...Midnight...**

He heard a woman yelling and struggling somewhere outside of his isolated cell, where they sometimes locked him up whenever Germany had no more use for him, and with some effort, he tried to block out the sound. It was an all too familiar situation, now that the new regime stepped up its efforts to rid the state of any resistance movements. Part of him, the cowardly part, wished that the woman would just stop fighting and take it, so that he may have some quiet. The other part of him hoped that the sudden silence meant that she had somehow killed herself rather than suffer such dishonor.

To his surprise, two harried soldiers wrestled the woman through the doorway of his cell, and then left without a word, locking the door behind them. France got to his hands and knees, trembling from weakness, his heart sinking, dropping like a lead weight.

"Marianne…" he whispered, as he gently cradled her body in his arms. "I told you to not come back for me. So why didn't you listen?"

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice, and she looked up into his face adoringly. With a painfully sweet smile, Marianne said, "I would never give up on you, you moron. Besides, I did it, what you said. The resistance is still strong, no matter what Vichy may have told everyone." She coughed, but continued, stronger this time, her smile wider. "And I've returned to tell you that England will come. He will save us, France will be freed."

Yet France found no comfort in her words, worried that the guards were listening, though he also suspected that the guards had grown deaf from ignoring him for so long. "Marianne, dearest," he said kindly, "England would not dare risk that, not for me. I… I would not depend on him."

"No, he will come. He promised!" She sat up now, and while she was not as badly injured as he had feared, her eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, her cheeks as gaunt as his, her beautiful body scarred and bruised from fighting, and after Paris fell, from running her dangerous missions. "Don't you trust me? Him? Why are you acting like this?"

"England has to protect his own borders before he could even think of fighting Germany here. Even with America's help, I just don't think…" he trailed off gloomily.

She hit him on the forehead like she used to do, making him wince. "Of course you don't think, if you thought more, we would not be in this mess! _Mon dieu_ , this is not what I expected to hear after all I went through in order to return to you."

" _Desole…"_ He sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor, while she laid down on her side, staring at him with haunted eyes.

"It's good to see you again, Marianne."

"And you, France, you look as handsome and stylish as ever, in your prisoner rags," she replied politely.

"I do my best with what I am given…"

Not knowing what else to do, he curled up beside her and reached over with one hand to touch her face, to wipe away the tears welling up in her eyes. As much torment as he had suffered at the hands of the Nazis and his new government, he would endure it all again to spare her the same. But God did not listen to his prayers, not anymore, and his beautiful Marianne suffered as he did, starved as he did, abused and pushed to the brink, to assuage Germany's wounded pride and his need to make things right.

"France?"

"Yes, love?"

"I am so tired of fighting…" she whispered in a tiny voice. "I thought the last one… would be the last."

"I know."

She took a deep shuddering breath, as if preparing to say something that hurt. "The women, they are not whores, you know. I've talked to them, and they just… they don't want to see anyone else suffering. They - they have no choice but to go along, to save their children, to protect the families with no fathers or sons or brothers…" She paused, closing her eyes for a few seconds, sniffling into her sleeve. "They are not whores," she repeated stubbornly, as if it would change history.

"No one thinks that, Marianne," he lied. She was not looking at him, so perhaps she believed him.

"You're not one, either."

He snorted, a little saddened to see how quickly she rose to his defense, when everyone else seemed reluctantly slow. "I thank you for such noble words, _ma belle_ , but that was not necessary. There is no shame in trying to survive."

And because they were the same, she understood what he really meant, that his life was one long struggle to survive against the odds, all to make that girl's sacrifice worth something, to give honor to the one he learned to love too late. Because she knew this, she could forgive him his actions.

"Hey, sing me a song, France. I miss your singing."

"My voice is not so pretty anymore."

"I don't mind."

"What shall I sing, then? A lullaby?"

"Yes, please, sing my favorite first. You know, the one in which the blood of my enemies waters the ground."

He grinned despite their hopeless situation, despite the fact that they may not survive, and sitting up, with his back straight and chin lifted, he started off with La Marseillaise. She joined in, a light soprano drifting along his deeper baritone, not stopping even after their guards finally shouted at them to desist.

" _Liberté, Liberté chérie, combats avec tes défenseurs!"_

They went through all the verses, then started on the other anthems, their voices sure and confident in the face of utter despair, making sure the others would hear. As fighting and surrendering and groveling and submitting did not help, so they sang for their life.

" _Merci_ , that was the most fun I've had in a while." Without waiting for his reply, she threw her arms around him, and they held each other tightly, not knowing if they would ever get the chance to again.

"Where are you going now?" he asked, once he realized she was not going to sleep.

"Give me a boost, will you? I think I can squeeze through," she said, throwing one arm over the window sill. He shook his head in half-horrified amusement, remembering the day they first met, and did his best to help her up. Fortunately, the gap just barely accommodated her slender form, and she was able to escape without drawing any attention.

"Be safe," he told her, as sternly as he could.

Rather cheekily, she blew him a kiss through the window and whispered, "Sleep well, my fair country. Tomorrow will be a better day. _Ça ira, ça ira!_ "

* * *

**A New Day**

The only hint that she had been there was the faint scent of lilies in the air, like the brief memory of a wonderful dream right before you forget it.

France got to his feet, the lazy smile on his face illuminated by the rising sun's light. Today will be a good day, he could tell, and tomorrow even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this request was about the other personification of France, Marianne, and the two of them singing patriotic songs. FYI, Dawn was after the execution of King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, Noon was during the reign of Napoleon Bonaparte, Afternoon was duh, after Waterloo, Dusk was after the second empire, Evening was the Entente Cordiale and Midnight was obviously during the Occupation and World War II. Note this is not femme!France as drawn by Hiruyama, this is the topless brunette woman depicted in political cartoons.


	7. Maiden (France and Jeanne d'Arc)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the story of a nation and his savior, the maid of Orleans.

La Pucelle d'Orleans

* * *

Agincourt

A mailed foot pressing down on the back of his head pushed him deeper into the mud, filling his mouth and nostrils with silt and gravel and blood. From somewhere above, he heard hoarse, crude and most of all, English voices urging his tormentor to step harder, but a sharp command out of nowhere secured his instant release. Wiping the mud off his face with an even muddier hand, he looked up into the eyes of his rescuer, those hated green eyes, and spat bitterly. (It was instinct after all, a hastily learned habit whose origins he could not remember now, only that he must continue.) While his act of useless defiance didn't make it very far, it left a black stain upon the child's ragged cloak and he must be content with that.

The boy stared at his defeated opponent, looking neither triumphant nor proud, only tired and unhappy, like a child who has been away from home too long. His hands clenched reflexively around a yew longbow, the magic wand they gave him to make all the monsters go away. (At what cost they never said.) But his voice remained dispassionate, for he had seen scenes of slaughter many times before and the stench of rotting flesh and the screams of injured men no longer made him retch and cry.

"This wouldn't have happened if you had just surrendered, _brother_. Now, please take your leave. You are on English soil now."

* * *

Domremy

He had fallen off his horse some hours ago, and lay dying somewhere in what he could only assume was still enemy territory. Already he felt like a shade of his former self, ignored by the larks in the sky and the mice in the fields, abandoned by the very land that was now surely being snatched away by those greedy English pigs.

He was coming to terms with an early and humiliating death by infected arrow wounds, lying forgotten in a wheat field that had seen better days, when his savior discovered him.

"Ser… are you an angel?" the child asked, mingled curiosity and grave concern in her large brown eyes. She squatted down beside him, taking in his battered and exceedingly not divine appearance, and came to another conclusion. "Have you… fallen from heaven?"

He cleared his throat to make a sarcastic reply, but he lost his voice during that horrific battle and his lips were cracked and bleeding. The girl then offered him a waterskin, which he eagerly drank from despite his earlier wish to die. He handed it back to her with a croaked word of thanks.

"What is your name, ser angel?"

It seemed that she was incredibly stupid or impossibly fearless or both, so he replied, as clearly as he could, not really caring either way.

She looked at him dubiously, as if she could possibly know who he really was, but set to work cleaning and binding his wounds with a grown-up efficiency, using the rest of her water and strips torn from the bottom of her apron. The pain was unbearable at first, but he could summon no strength to resist her efforts even if he wanted to. After she tended the most accessible of the wounds, she put her arm gently around his shoulders and lifted him to his feet with ease, surprising them both. "My name is Jeanne, ser Francis. You can come home with me and recover there. You don't have to run anymore, you are safe now."

She smiled like the sun upon clear water or the first birdsong after winter, and he lost consciousness.

* * *

Orleans

"Sometimes I fight with my brothers," she mused once, while she brushed out the tangles in his hair with a wooden comb, "but we always forgave each other afterwards. Because we are family."

He did not deign to answer that with anything other than a snort and she giggled at his stubbornness.

As she tied his hair back with a scrap of ribbon, her fingers brushed his ear ever so lightly. He felt himself redden and he brushed her hand away in irritation. But she did not look hurt, and her eyes shone with a desperate and painful love, the kind of loyalty he did not deserve.

Though he tried, God knows how much he tried, he could not break away from this girl who had saved him and cherished him and healed his heart, only to break it again. "I am no saint, _mon agneau_ , surely you know that by now."

"I know it," she answered simply, hands tightening into fists in her lap, her gaze intense and adoring and challenging all at once. Angels spoke to this peasant girl, _he knew_ , and whether or not anyone believed her, she somehow made those visions real with the strength of her belief. "But you are still my life, Francis."

"I will be your death as well," he whispered softly, certainly.

He woke up one morning to see her pale face hovering above his. In the half-light of dawn, he noticed the faint glimmer of chain mail and the sword at her belt, and he sat up, worried.

"Is it time?" he asked, fear threatening to freeze the breath in his lungs.

"Ssshh… don't move so suddenly. Your wounds have re-opened." The cloth covering the old shoulder wound from Agincourt had turned dark red and sticky over the night, and she replaced it with a fresh bandage.

"…If I wait any longer, you may not survive and I can not let that happen." Her girlish voice sounded utterly calm, as if she was considering going to market to buy some thread instead of riding to certain death at the ends of the English longbows.

"I did this to her," he thought with dull horror, "she will die because of me and she will think it glorious."

"Jeanne…" he whispered, hating how his voice cracked and trembled, hating his cowardice and weakness and indecision that drove her to this madness. "The English will have no mercy, not after what you did at Orleans and Reims. And you can not trust Burgundy… I beg you, turn back, save yourself-"

" _Non_ ," she protested gently, persistent to the end. "They must see me lead the charge. They must see the flag I made. I am the only one who can save us, Francis. Don't you see?"

Slowly, she knelt beside his cot, with fingers interlaced, bowing so that her roughly-cropped hair hid the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

"Please, pray with me."

Placing his hands over her clasped ones, he bent forward to kiss her sweet mouth, so that she opened her eyes in surprise. "Let God's will be done. Whatever happens… Know that I will never forget you, Jeanne."

"I- I love you, Francis," and now she was crying, frightened, his brave warrior maiden, his champion, hiccupping in soft sobs so that the other soldiers could not hear.

It was then that he realized the voices had not answered her today, and he knew, as she knew, that her luck had run out.

" _Je t'aime_." Though it broke his heart to say those words without living their promise, he said them anyway because she needed to hear them.

She nodded, her tears having stopped momentarily, her lips now moving in a childlike prayer. "Lord in Heaven above, Jesus Christ, protect France and let him live. In the name of love and light, in the name of mercy, please let him live."

And so he lived. Though England found her guilty of witchcraft and burned her body twice and scattered her ashes into the Seine, he lived. He lived through the later wars and conquests and invasions, enduring the slaughter over and over again, forgiving though never truly forgetting. For her sake, _for her sake_ , he repeated to himself, as old scars faded and new ones made their mark, for the sake of that girl who loved him so much she died for him.

That girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Old but still good.
> 
> This is the last of the one-shot 1 x 1 pairings, the rest are multi-chapter or have 3 or more people involved all at once, I will upload them separately I guess.

**Author's Note:**

> At least one person enjoyed these fics, aka the person who originally requested them on LJ 10 years ago, if you are still around, hope you are doing well! Coming soon are the multi-chapter france x world fics, as well as a few gifts for friends which were technically not kink meme fills, just regular prompt fills.


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